Under the Feet of Jesus Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Acknowledgements

  “BRILLIANTLY EXECUTED ... INTENSE ... exhibits a command of the potential magic inherent in the written word that most writers can only aspire to ... a remarkable voice.”

  —Sunday Oregonian

  “CAPTIVATING ...VIVID.”

  —Orlando Sentinel

  “LYRICAL ... A COMPELLING DEBUT... Viramontes displays gifts of understanding and storytelling unusual for a first novel.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A BEAUTIFUL STORY ... I was immediately captured by the insight and power of her imagery.... Her writing is tactile and sonorous, but there is something more.... I wanted to meet Viramontes’ characters, squat down and eat with them.”

  —Alfredo Véa, Jr., author of La Maravilla

  HELENA MARÍA VIRAMONTES, author of The Moths and Other Stories, was born in East Los Angeles. A community organizer and coordinator of the Los Angeles Latino Writers Association, she has won several literary awards, and her work is widely anthologized. She currently lives in Ithaca, New York, where she is a creative writing professor at Cornell University.

  “TEMPERS A RESTRAINED FURY AT SOCIAL INJUSTICE WITH LOVELY LYRICAL GRACE. ... VIRAMONTES HAS A KEEN EYE FOR FINDING BEAUTY.”

  —Elle

  “Gives a fierce poetic voice to the lives of Piscadores in the California vineyards and orchards.... Viramontes writes with an irresistible authority that compels our recognition and wonder.”

  —Judith Grossman, author of Her Own Terms

  “A LITERARY FEAT AND A POWERFUL POLITICAL STATEMENT ... Viramontes creates a picture of first love emerging amid a landscape of harassment, injustice, and indifference.”

  —Seattle Times & Post-Intelligencer

  “Viramontes depicts this world with sensuous physicality ... working firmly in the social-realist vein of Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Viramontes brings to her work not only an exceptional lyricism but the urgency of an impassioned appeal for better conditions for migrant farm laborers.”

  —Anniston Star

  “A gem of a novel. Beautifully written, as tender as it is tough. Its ending haunts.”

  —John Rechy, author of City of Night

  “A LYRICAL TALE ... Viramontes’ images linger, and the book will linger for a while too.”

  —Washington Post Book World

  “LIKE ALL GOOD BOOKS, THIS ONE ENDS TOO SOON AND LEAVES YOU WANTING MORE.... Viramontes writes beautifully in vivid language that captures the magic and power of nature.”

  —Caze

  “A TOUCHING TALE ... a humanizing tribute to precious lives otherwise gone unnoticed.”

  —Ana Castillo, author of So Far from God

  “OFFERS A BREATH OF FRESH AIR, GIVING SCOPE AND DIMENSION TO THE MIGRANT WORKERS’ LIVES.”

  —Express Books

  “CONVEYS A REALISTIC IMAGE OF THE LIVES OF FIELD WORKERS.”

  —Trenton Times

  “Viramontes shows readers that through even the toughest of circumstances love blooms, families endure and dreams never cease.”

  —Copley News Service

  PLUME

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books USA Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  Published by Plume, an imprint of Dutton Signet,

  a division of Penguin Books USA Inc.

  Previously published in a Dutton edition.

  First Plume Printing, April, 1996

  Copyright © Helena María Viramontes, 1995

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  The Library of Congress has catalogued the Dutton edition as follows:

  Viramontes, Helena Maria

  Under the feet of Jesus / Helena Maria Viramontes.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-07823-5

  I. Title.

  PS3572.163U53 1995

  813’.54—dc20

  94-46860

  CIP

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN BOOKS USA INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NY 10014.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To my parents

  Mary Louise LaBrada Viramontes

  and

  Serafin Bermúdes Viramontes

  who met in Buttonwillow

  picking cotton

  In Memory of

  César Chávez

  One

  Had they been heading for the barn all along? Estrella didn’t know. The barn had burst through a clearing of trees and the cratered roof reminded her of the full moon. They were seven altogether—their belongings weighed down an old Chevy Capri station wagon, the clouds above them ready to burst like cotton plants. Then the barn disappeared into a hillside of brittle bush and opuntia cactus as the man who was not her father maneuvered the wagon through a laborious curve.

  Sunlight weaved in and out of the clouds. Wisps of wind ruffled the orange and avocado and peach trees which rolled and tumbled as far back as the etched horizon of the mountain range. A cluster of amputated trees marked the entrance of the side road. The mother said Aqui, and the man whom they called Perfecto slowed down and turned. The mother refolded the Phillips 66 map and shouted that she hoped the winds would push the clouds away and it wouldn’t rain. She had to repeat it over the booming muffler to Perfecto and he tested the windshield wipers. One wiper scraped away a splattered insect. He scratched his head and said he was tired of sleeping sitting up in the car. And then they were quiet.

  The silence and the barn and the clouds meant many things. It was always a question of work, and work depended on the harvest, the car running, their health, the conditions of the road, how long the money held out, and the weather, which meant they could depend on nothing. Estrella watched Perfecto’s hand scratching the back of his head with uncertainty. His skin was like the bark of a juniper tree.

  The beige station wagon bumped along the unpaved road, bucking the bundles and the rolled tarpaulin and pipes tied with a web of ropes to the luggage rack.

  —Ssshh, hissed Alejo to his cousin, Someone’s coming.

  —Shit, I hate this.

  —Quiet.

  Alejo saw the wagon from the tall peach tree in the orchard. He had been picking peaches, ripe from the direct sun, and handed his selections b
etween the rustle of branches to his cousin, Gumecindo, who clutched a flour sack and doubled as a lookout. They labored before sunset, right after work, when others would not see them.

  The cousins had argued with one another, first about whose turn it was to climb up the trees, second about a man named Plato. Gumecindo thought Plato was “plate” in gringo Spanish, and when Alejo told him otherwise, they laughed so hard they had to remind themselves of why they were in the peach orchard. Alejo, slender and the more agile of the two, tested the slouching branches for strength, then pulled himself up until the younger branches creaked. Peach fuzz tickled his face.

  He picked the brightest peaches until he heard a car engine puckering like marbles against the hood and he hunched into the bushy canopy of the tree. Through the colander of leaves, Alejo watched the car door open, its engine idling, while wasps droned near the resinous fruit. Their hind legs dangled like golden threads.

  A wiry man emerged from the station wagon, his creased and baggy trousers hiked above his waist. These was a slick wax shine to the cap of baldness on the thin man’s head. Someone from inside the car handed him a hat. He palmed his sparse silver hair, then jammed the hat on his head and then he reached for a rope tied above the car and pulled so that the bundle looked like a belly over a tightened belt. His glasses caught reflections of the afternoon sun as he knotted the rope and he turned towards the peach orchard, right in the direction of Alejo, and the man’s glasses glimmered like sparks. Alejo quickly crouched further into the foliage and a branch snapped above his head. He pushed down a few leafy twigs and followed the wagon’s tire tread until the dust settled.

  Perfecto headed for the clearing and steered away from the potholes but still the car dipped and bumped and the empty water bottle on the dash and coffee cups and sun visors flapped down and the maps spilled onto the mother’s lap. Be careful, she scolded, bracing her arm against the sun-cracked dashboard. He wedged the bottle between them. The twin girls startled awake.

  —Are we there yet? Ricky asked the mother. He reached up and halted a white plastic rosary which hung from the rearview mirror. Estrella waited for the mother’s answer.

  Perfecto lifted a finger from the steering wheel and pointed to a shabby wood frame bungalow. Blond tufts of asparagus weeds grew along the front of the bungalow and in between the warped boards of the porch steps.

  —Is this it, Petra? he asked.

  Petra crossed her arms. The bigger oak tree which once branched an arc of shade to the roof was cut so far down, the stump was useless even as a seat. The cooking pit seemed farther from the porch.

  —Gracias a Diós, she answered, and Perfecto cranked the parking brake. The wagon puckered and fell silent.

  —We’re here? asked Estrella.

  —We’re here, said the mother, Petra.

  —We’re here, whispered Estrella to her sleeping brother Arnulfo.

  The doors sprang open. Stray socks, balls of crushed waxed paper, peanut shells, and a plastic doll tumbled from the car. The twin girls spilled out of the backseat first. Estrella emerged after her brothers, her legs uncurling and her bare toes flexing. She picked up the doll and felt kinks in her back. Ricky had already stepped on it.

  —You okay? she asked the naked doll and then she shook the doll’s head NO.

  —Sure you are, she said and tossed it back on the seat. Estrella ran, her flowered dress billowing, strands of black hair escaping from her unraveling braid. The twins trailed like busy chicks. The boys headed for the vacant corrals. They jumped the wooden fence and ran, jostling the tall grass.

  Petra had deep coffee-colored skin and black, kinked hair that she tamed with a short braid. She walked to the cooking pit in flapping rubber sandals, then arched her back. The grate needed scrubbing and she looked around for horsetail weed, which was just as good for scouring as steel wool. With a stick left by the last occupants, she poked the coal and wood ash. The fragrance of toasted corn tortillas, of garlic and chile bubbling over the flames, of fried tripas spitting fat in a cast-iron skillet, rose like dust to her nose. She lifted the grate, and touched the sticky char. Petra turned when the porch planks moaned at the weight of Perfecto’s boot popping a scorpion.

  —Niño de tierra, he said, looking around for any more. The wind lifted the large rim of his hat.

  Perfecto inspected the two-room bungalow, sliding his thick bifocals up to the bridge of his nose. He rattled the knob, stepped into a dingy room with a window facing the porch. The stink of despair shot through the musty sunlight, and he knocked a fist against the window to loosen the swollen pane to get some fresh air into the room. Cobwebs laced the corners. There were no beds and only a few crates used for chairs arranged around one table as if for a game of cards. Perfecto figured only men had stayed here. He planned to move the table outside near the cooking pit. Three crates in the corner would be a good place to set up Petra’s altar with Jesucristo, La Virgen Maria y José. He walked slowly, studying the ceiling for leaks.

  In the center of the second room, Perfecto spotted a dead bird. Birds, the sparrows especially, found their way into abandoned houses only to bombard themselves against the walls. But dead birds spooked Petra so he picked the carcass up by its stiff taloned feet, and dumped it out the side window. Perfecto Flores, who was thirty-seven years older than Petra, would not mention the bird.

  Petra pulled the broom out of the station wagon. She watched Estrella’s long legs leap over the tall blades of wild mustard grass, her own legs shackled by varicose veins. She called for Estrella and raised a broom as a threat, screamed to her children:

  —Get back this minute, huercos fregados, who do you think you are, corriendo sin zapatos? ¡Te van a comer los niños de tierra! Without so much as putting on your shoes, huerquitos fregados! but her words netted in the rustle of the trees.

  Estrella listened to the tease of words and leaves. The eucalyptus trees lined the dirt road like a row of thin dancing girls fanning their feathers. The breeze billowed her dress and for a moment she held her elbows as she watched the mother swish the broom against the mentholated wind. Then Estrella looked at the barn way back to the side of the bungalow. She couldn’t wait until morning to investigate and began running again. Being the oldest, just turned the corner to thirteen (the mother thought the number unlucky, and they both waited anxiously for her fourteenth birthday), Estrella came upon the barn first. She halted the twins with a shove and rubbed her bare foot against clumps of dandelions to answer an itch.

  The children stood in the shade of the barn, a cathedral of a building. The twins’ laughter curdled into whispers. The one twin, Perla, became frightened and scratched the divide where her two braids parted. The other twin, who went by Cookie though her name was Cuca, closed an eye and her gaze followed the slanted, splintery wood sheeting until she was staring at the glaring sky. Only Estrella studied the door with its flaked white paint, holding fast to keep the torn hem of her dress from fanning up with the wind.

  Perla stopped scratching. She waited to see what her eldest sister would do.

  —I’ll tell Mama, Cookie dared.

  Estrella offered her head first. The scent of dung and damp hay lingered thick and the motes of dust swirled. The barn seemed so strangely vacant; the absence clung heavy and the wind whistled between the planks. She noticed a chain suspended from the ceiling. Thick-linked, long and rusty, it swayed like a pendulum, as if someone had just touched it and ran off.

  The barn door suddenly swung loose, squeaking worse than the brakes on Perfecto’s wagon. The screech of the rusted hinge flushed out the owls and swallows roosting in the gable, a riot of feathers and fluttering that startled the twins. It happened so quickly. The swallows and owls shrieking in a burst of furious flight, feathers snowing down, the girls screaming.

  —Cats fighting. Alejo whispered between the toes of his Concord tennis shoes, through the branches and down to Gumecindo. Then the cousins looked up. Birds whirled like frantic bits of torn paper. The many r
ows of trees whipped, then paused, then whipped again, and Alejo couldn’t read which direction the birds came from. A few peaches thudded on the ground. Alejo clasped a branch and as he climbed down, a gnarled limb bristled against his spine. It chilled him. His feet dangled and he dropped to the ground, dust rising from beneath his shoes.

  —Let’s get outta here, Gumecindo pleaded. He dragged a full sack to a tree and leaned it against the trunk. He flipped his head back to see what Alejo would do. The screaming halted as abruptly as it had started. A few stray birds glided by. What do you think?

  —It’s just cats fighting, Alejo repeated, more for himself than for his cousin. Daylight was waning. He inspected the trees to the south of him, the peaches lush and ready. The remaining sunlight lit the top of the trees; the leaves flickered like gold licks of fire. He grabbed one ear of the cloth sack held by Gumecindo, then grabbed the other sack from the tree and weighed the two, his hands like scales to make sure they both had equal shares. He passed the bigger, bulkier sack to a frightened Gumecindo.

  —I always thought La Llorona was just a story, Gumecindo said. His shadow was long and split by a trunk and for a moment Alejo thought it odd the way the head of his cousin’s shadow kept smashing into the trees as they walked. Distracted, Alejo tripped on a root and the peaches rolled out. The two young men began picking up the fruit, the lace of shadowed leaves on their backs.